


Let You Let Me Down

by imperfectkreis



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drinking & Talking, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Dishonored: Death of the Outsider, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: After Corvo has left, Billie comments that he looks good, “better, than when I last saw you.”“I took your name, you know? We’re siblings now.”It’s her turn to look upon him with disdain, “Yes, surely that is to be believed.”Or, the gang goes time traveling to stop a threat they don’t fully comprehend. Everyone wants to get in their one-liner; the (former) Outsider wants to get into Corvo’s pants; Corvo might not be entirely opposed to letting him; Billie could be working the system to become a god; and Mindy takes up quasi-legal sciences.
Relationships: Corvo Attano/The Outsider (Dishonored)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

Corvo Attano smells of soot and ash, brine, oil, the tang of metal. Or maybe that’s just the scent of Dunwall. His hair wild, loose around his shoulders, eyes sharp, appraising, refusing just yet to accept the scene in front of him as real.

“My dear Cor-“ he cannot finish the name that he indeed holds dear. Sharp on his tongue, a taste of confession. No, he cannot speak now, not as the subject of his attention turns away, marching with sure steps in the opposite direction, disappearing into the crowd of bodies shuffling along the streets of Dunwall.

This isn’t how he expected their first meeting since his expulsion from the Void to go. This is not how he expected his very human self to make first overtures. 

Fuck.

Giving chase, he hurries after Corvo. The Royal Protector is just tall enough that he can follow the back of his head as he tries to close the gap between them. No, no, this isn’t how things were supposed to go at all.

How had the Outsider envisioned their reunion? He can’t recall, now that he is the Outsider no longer.

“Corvo, wait!” he calls out above the din of the crowd. The noise of it is unceasing. Part of him hates the vulnerable desperation in his voice. He hates that there is such emotion spewing forth from what was for so long flat and unaffected. But, truly he was never as cold, as detached, as humans believe. Perhaps it was merely kinder that they all cast him as cruel. “Stop, please!”

There isn’t enough space to break out into a run. Too many bustling bodies are in the way. He has to wrestle Corvo’s attention back. 

He sees as Corvo turns down the next alleyway, breaking from the morning pack. Breathing deeply, he hopes that Corvo only wished for privacy. Yes, that’s all it was! Corvo’s dismissive behavior is very easily explained. It would be dangerous to have such an important reunion out in the open. Afterall, he looks very much like the Outsider.

But once he takes the corner, Corvo is nowhere to be seen. A lone rat scurries from behind an overfull dumpster, scuttling deeper down the alley. Here the smell of decay is strong, stinging the insides of his delicate nostrils. Looking from side to side, he tries to figure which way Corvo is likely to have headed. In his heart, he knows it’s futile, though. Even into his fifties now, Corvo could just as soon vertically scale the building, vanish into thin air.

He takes another step into the alley, following the path the rat traced before him. Were he the self he used to be, it would be so easy to ask the critter for directions. Now, while some echo of those powers remain, there is a limit. Knowing as much has left him feeling quite small, despite his apparently excessive height compared to most inhabitants of the Isles.

“Corvo?” His voice is barely above a whisper now. Futile, really, to think that Corvo might respond. Apparently, Corvo does not wish to be found by him. Then again, the man may not have even realized before this that he was lost.

A heavy thudding weight descends upon him, a flash of a dark coat, heavy fabric draping across his body. The metal blade against his throat is too familiar. Too terrifying. By instinct he thought long-forgotten, he opens his mouth to scream, his body tense and staticky. Run, run, run. There is blood pounding in his ears, louder than the silence of the Void.

“Who are you?” Corvo hisses through gritted teeth, one hand clamped firmly over his mouth, the other holding the blade against the apple of his neck.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to answer through the gag of Corvo’s hand. His eyes must look wild and bright. Only now has his flight response started to ebb, though he feels soaked through with damp sweat. He’s certain were he to try and stand that his head would feel quite light. It’s better that he remain on his back.

Corvo pulls his hand away from his mouth, seemingly satisfied that his quarry cannot run and will not scream. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his voice and wrestle back some of the composure that might make him more recognizable as himself. “Exactly who you think I am.”

“No,” Corvo shakes his head, “it cannot be. It’s not possible.” For all his disbelief, Corvo retracts his blade. Though he does not otherwise shift his weight, using his bulkier body to keep him pinned in place.

“Who else would I be?” He is not sure what else might convince Corvo, if not his face. They have spent so little time together, even as Corvo lived through some fifteen years as one of his Marked. The dark lines that constituted his claim on Corvo are gone now, snatched away by Delilah with magics he knew existed, that he could have anticipated would be turned against him. Yet he did nothing to stop her.

Corvo frowns, “An imposter, an opportunist, has your face always looked like his? Or is it the work of a clever butcher?” He tisks, “nothing can be done about the eyes of course.” Corvo holds his hand out flat, palm down, hovering over his eyes as if to blot them out. Perhaps Corvo is trying to see just how closely his face matches to Corvo’s memories.

“Delilah took it from you,” he ventures, a little more confident now in what he might say to sway Corvo towards the truth. “It was a relief at first, I’m sure. To show your hand in public again. Except you would take it back, if Emily’s hand could be bare in exchange.”

Corvo’s eyes darken, his expression growing stern, on the cusp of anger. “Do not address the Empress as such.”

Despite the danger he may be in, he cannot help but fixate a bit too much on the sensation of Corvo’s body pressed tightly against his own, the weight and heat of it, the way Corvo shifts atop him. Since tumbling from the Void his senses always seem too sharp. Everything is too bright, too vibrant, too much. He only hopes the intensity dulls in time. Though right now there is the acute problem of how Corvo’s touch makes him feel alight all over.

“Why? I’ve never called her any different, except in jest,” he winces internally, hoping that his mistake is not obvious to Corvo. He doesn’t know if Emily would have shared much at all about the tone of their conversations. Even under great stress she is better humored than her father.

“Tell me something only he would know,” Corvo demands in a low voice. The tenor of it runs along his skin, stoking something dangerous.

He has to consider for a moment what would be the answer that Corvo is looking for. What will untie the knot of uncertainty sure to be tight and hard in Corvo’s chest. There must be something that Corvo is searching for specifically. Because, if nothing else, he believes that Corvo wishes to confirm this encounter as true.

“I never told you how scared I was, but I think you always knew,” there are so many other choices when it comes to secrets. Moments more specific and precise. Details that he could have only known from his past position as warden of the Void. Statements that would chill Corvo to the bone, others that might make him weep. But nothing else feels right. To play on Corvo’s emotions now would be too cruel. So, instead, he chooses to allow himself to be hurt in Corvo’s place.

He wishes that there were joyful promises between them, instead of tragedy stacked upon tragedy. Perhaps that can change now.

“How?” Corvo asks, finally sitting back on his heels and giving him the space he needs to sit up as well.

At least now his heart is not pounding quite so frantically, though he can still feel the ghosting of Corvo’s body against his. It’s easier to focus with the space between them, though he already aches to be close again. 

“Billie Lurk, she found a way. Other than that, I do not know the precise nature of the magics that make me...so…” Truthfully, while becoming human once more was not outside the possibilities that he had witnessed, it was not a likely outcome when he set Billie upon her path. Death, a real death, was far more probable. His only wish was that he somehow be removed from his prison. There was no hope for anyone if that could not be achieved.

Standing tall, Corvo offers him a hand up. Corvo is not a small man by any means, but he stands a half-inch taller than the Royal Protector. The difference is much more obvious now as they stand facing one another. He tries to remember if the people he was first born among were taller than those of the Isles. Undoubtedly this is not the same body he once occupied. That one decayed over the intervening millenia. That corpse never reached the age he now resembles. Though his appearance is one that he has always assumed must look quite similar to what he would have achieved had he lived to adulthood.

“How long will it last?” Corvo asks. It becomes obvious that he doesn’t even understand what has happened.

“Permanent,” he tries to explain the best he can. “I am as human now as you are. There is no going back. It was this or death. And Billie chose this.”

“Human,” Corvo repeats the word as if there is innate magic in it. Perhaps there is. “Where is she now?”

He shakes his head, “Traveling, looking for an...old acquaintance of mine. Someone only she’ll be able to find. I told her to leave me here. That I would find you soon enough. The fissure in the Tower was inaccessible.”

“I suspect there is more,” Covos concedes. He does not ask what he means by ‘fissure,’ perhaps finally now resigned to taking him back to the tower where they may speak in private. “I have an appointment.”

Nodding, he offers, “I may accompany you, then? There is nothing that you might learn from your informant I would not have at one time known.” That isn’t strictly true.

Corvo lets out a heavy sigh, “I suppose,” Corvo holds out his arm, gesturing back towards the street, allowing him to walk a step ahead before catching up. “When did it happen?”

He laughs, “technically? Tomorrow.”

—

“There is the matter of what to call you,” Corvo broaches the subject of a name only after they are safely behind the heavy oaken door of his private chambers. Emily still has another engagement left this evening before they will have the chance to meet with her.

He frowns, “I’m afraid that my old name will be too cumbersome for the modern tongue.”

Corvo steps behind his desk, taking a decanter of whiskey from the bar cart, along with two glasses. He pours twice as much in one glass for himself, a smaller portion for his guest. “You also look far too much like the paintings. I’ve always wondered about that.”

He laughs, “Oh, I suppose you wanted to think yourself special? That you and only you knew for certain my appearance? You’ve always known I’m not particularly illusive. But I don’t think that matters much? I look sufficiently like I could be from the Isles. Mere coincidence that I happen to resemble the Outsider.”

Corvo passes him the glass before crossing both arms over his chest, his own whisky carefully grasped in one large hand. “But you’re not, are you. You’re not from the Isles at all.”

“No, but you know that. Everyone knows that, even if it’s only by way of myth. I was born on the Continent of course.”

“You’re very tall,” Corvo states the obvious. “And very beautiful.”

He rolls his eyes, as much as he might long to take both statements as compliments from the subject of his desires, Corvo is far too straightforward for that. It’s why he made a poor Spymaster, though he has always been excellent in his role as Royal Protector. The qualities that make a person good at one leads to abysmal performance in the other. Indeed, Corvo’s comment on his looks is more a statement of fact than a confession of lust.

“You’re very tall and handsome as well. I fail to see your point.”

“People will stare at you. And as they can recognize my face from the lithographs in the papers, they will know yours from the paintings by your devout,” Corvo explains.

He waves off Corvo’s concerns, “You’ve seen me as the Outsider with your own eyes and couldn’t believe it was actually me. When the truth is stranger than fiction, people will write their own stories. I’m not concerned.”

“I suppose,” Corvo concedes. He takes another sip from his glass.

Only then does he remember the tumbler Corvo offered him, growing warm in the heat of his grip. 

The whiskey is not entirely unpleasant against his tongue, though he doubts he would seek it out himself. He knows this to be sort of an evening ritual for Corvo, and being included in it fills his chest with a pleasant lightness he cannot attribute entirely to the alcohol.

“Call me ‘Foster,’ I think. It is one of Billie’s aliases. She will find it funny.” Actually, she may be quite annoyed, but Foster will find that amusing.

“Foster,” Corvo tries out the name, “at least your name won’t draw attention. Do you have someplace to stay?”

Foster laughs, “Of course, I’ll stay here. As if you would want me out of your sight,” he teases.

Corvo concedes, “you’re right.” He crosses the room to ring the serving bell.

Corvo’s status means that no one will question that he has a guest. He instructs the servant who arrives to prepare a room. There are none on the same floor as the Royal Protector’s quarters, but as close as the staff can manage. Foster astutely hides his disappointment that two floors down is close enough, rather than Corvo doing something reckless like literally keeping him where he can see him at all times. Oh well.

Once Foster gets the chance to explain everything he doubts he’ll be spending much time at all in the Tower. But it will be nice to have a place to which he can return. Besides, he does not know how long Billie will be gone, and at which moment she might reappear. That is a conversation better left to when Emily can join them.

Corvo has left a note with her secretary to come to his chambers once he business is concluded. She never ignores a summons from her father, no matter how tired she might be.

Foster is sure that Corvo must have questions, but he holds them back. Instead they occupy their time together making a list of mundane items Foster will need now that he is mortal.

“Teeth really are the silliest of bones,” Foster laments. “They require too much care compared to the others.”

“Better that than to have an empty mouth by the time you’re thirty-five,” Corvo grumbles.

Tisking, Foster reminds him, “I’m four-thousand-something, young man.”

“But your teeth are not,” at least Corvo is in good humor. The whiskey probably helps.

Emily does not knock when she arrives. She has been Empress for a long time and to ask permission of anyone, her father included, would be unbecoming of her station. Her short-cropped hair is askew, the pomade she uses to keep it in place having worn out hours ago. The circles around her eyes are barely concealed with thin remnants of the powder she applied this morning. She looks exhausted and radiant and perfect. Foster finds her to be absolutely beautiful.

He rises to his feet, “Emily, darling.”

Her brown eyes go wide, her lips part. She only hesitates a moment before running the few quick steps that separate them with an uninhibited glee she throws her arms around his shoulders, coming up on her toes to reach him. Her hug is so tight and sure that Foster cannot help to return her enthusiasm. Several seconds pass before she starts to pull away, though only far enough that she can see his face. Her hands come up to hold his cheeks as her eyes bore into his pale ones, as if assessing whether or not this is true.

“I assumed something terrible had happened,” there is water in her eyes. “You look so different, but just the same.”

He wants so very much to kiss her, to prove that he is real. But her father would misinterpret the gesture. “Did you call on me?”

She nods, “four months ago. You did not answer. Though somehow I...made it to the Void. Or someplace somewhat like it.” She turns her attention away, drawing back her hand to unwrap the bandage around it. The dark fabric falls away and she turns her hand to show him the back. His Mark is mangled, broken. The skin around it blistered and red.

“Emily,” Corvo whispers. He did not know.

“There was nothing to be done about it,” she tries to soothe her father. “I thought if I could find you, I could figure out what had happened. You’d never failed to answer me, even before…” she hesitates. There are other things that Corvo doesn’t know. Like his speaking to Emily long before she took his Mark, in those long years Corvo never asked for him.

Emily takes another step back before tucking the discarded ribbon into her vest pocket. She will have to wrap it again before she leaves her father’s chambers. “What happened?”

Foster explains in brief the steps that Billie took to remove him from his prison. The story is not a flattering one for his character. He leaves aside the detail that he thought it a sort of...assisted suicide, rather than a second chance at life. Though he is admittedly pleased at the outcome.

“She is searching now for a man. One that we must find,” Foster finishes.

“Wait,” Corvo’s eyes are narrowed, assessing. While Foster and Emily have moved to the couch, sitting up in such a manner they can face each other, feet up on the cushions, Corvo has stayed standing, looming over the both of them. “You said something earlier. That this would not all happen until tomorrow. And Emily said that her Mark changed four months ago.”

“Yes,” Foster claps his hands together. “I supposed it had been about four months since all of this happened, tomorrow.” Perhaps now he is being deliberately obtuse just to bother Corvo.

“Time travel,” Emily supplies, “like the Timepiece you gave to me at Stilton’s manor. You’re jumping through the timeline.”

“More precisely Billie and our quarry are. I’m simply an interloper, a stowaway. I suspect I have some minor powers not afforded to other humans, but in the cosmic scheme of magics, Billie is near the apex now, I would think.”

“My magics still work,” Emily supplies, “but in a more limited capacity. As if I do not have access to as much power as I did before.”

“Your connection to the Void was through my gift,” admittedly, Foster can offer her no definitive conclusions, only his own speculations. “Perhaps the conduit is more narrow now, but not shut off to you entirely. I think it is the same for me.”

“Emily, you told me of what happened at the manor. But you could only travel to one moment in time...and does this mean that there will be a second one of you appearing as a mortal tomorrow?”

“No,” Foster replies, reasonably certain. “Time is not as linear as you may think. There is only one of each of us. Perhaps you might call it a spirit? Anything else is just a memory. A phantom. When Emily returned to the party at Stilton’s manor, the Empress of two years ago was...uninhabited, a shell. The time Emily spent crossing over was very brief, a few hours at most. So it made little difference. The same I suspect will be true of the ‘me’ saved tomorrow. The motions will occur, but my and Billie’s sprits have already moved on.”

“Where is she now?” At least Emily is not dwelling on the metaphysics. “You said she’s searching for someone.”

Foster explains, “Yes, a man I only ever saw glimpses of. He is able to pass through time at will. Like nothing I’ve seen before, like nothing I have ever been able to gift a human.”

“Who is he?” Emily asks.

He wishes he had an answer for her. “I do not know. Billie and I refer to him as the Traveler. It is a name I have heard others call him as well. I have perhaps seen him a dozen times over the last four thousand years. Only ever in brief flashes. He was a younger man once, but he has since grown old. Frail in appearance, if not in constitution. After the extinguishing of Delilah...he has grown bold.” Shaking his head, Foster admits, “I do not know his purpose for certain. There are no gods left in this world. That much I know. Maybe once, long ago, before my birth, they existed. And we are all rats fighting over scraps of power. Maybe he is just another vermin.”

“Then why does he matter?” Corvo questions.

“Why, because pests bring plague, of course.”

—

There is little any of them can accomplish regarding the topic of the Traveler before Billie’s return. She may arrive any moment at all, or make them wait a lifetime. Only one twin-bladed knife exists, and she is the one to wield it. Without the edge to tear apart the seams, what little magic Foster can still conjure cannot allow them to cross the barrier of time.

So, instead, they occupy themselves with the typical niceties of Tower life. Emily and Corvo are quite busy indeed, and Foster is mostly left to his own devices. He is not often bored, as there is much about living he wishes to learn. A simple word from the Empress gives him free reign of the Tower grounds. And he is seen enough in the Royal Protector’s company that the guards do not question his comings and goings.

As much as Corvo is able he invites Foster to his office. Corvo sorts through missives at his desk, while Foster tears through Emily’s collection of light novels. Their companionship is a steady thing, something that Foster much enjoys. Corvo appears increasingly comfortable with his presence, perhaps placated that no one has said a thing about how Foster resembles the Outsider. At least not to his face.

The comfort that has bloomed between them in a matter of days, stretching into one week, then the next, makes feel Foster bold. Corvo has not denied him much at all. Then again, he has asked for very little. 

So, one evening, Foster thinks a bit of teasing may be in order. He is still nursing the one glass of whiskey he shares with Corvo, who may take two or three in the same amount of time. The steady scratch of Corvo’s pen against paper has lulled Foster’s senses somewhat. He still thinks that stimuli affect him more acutely than they should, but he has a better hold on his reactions with each passing day.

From the time on the clock face maybe twenty minutes remain before Corvo will decide it is time to retire. He is always exceedingly polite when he wishes Foster to bed. Tonight Foster plans to wish for something different.

Rising from his place on the couch, Foster stretches his arms high above his head. Emily’s personal tailor has produced a wardrobe of clothing for him, all in proper fashion for the age, the youth of his face, and the slimness of his figure. The shirt he wears is somewhat cropped, the trousers beneath high waisted in compensation. Still, as he lifts his hands high, he knows a stretch of skin along his trim waist is visible. He hopes now that Corvo knows as well.

“Tired?” Corvo asks, looking up from the documents spread out before him. “Do not stay on my account. You should go to bed.”

Seizing his opportunity, Foster takes a step towards Corvo’s desk, then two. He plants his hands firmly on the tabletop, leaning over so that Corvo might see where the top button of his shirt has come undone. “Perhaps,” he teases.

Corvo at least looks up at him, though the expression on his face is not easily deciphered. Foster wishes to believe it looks a bit like curiosity. Corvo reaches again for his whiskey glass with cool composure, leaning back in his chair to shift the angle from which he observes Foster’s advances. At least it’s not a rejection.

“You could-“ Foster starts, before a loud whirring noise comes roaring from somewhere behind him, quickly giving way to a screeching hiss. 

Corvo is on his feet, already drawing his blade to ready. A swirling mass of fog bursts forth not ten paces from where Foster stands. Rushing ahead, Corvo puts himself in between Foster and the anomaly. But all too soon the room is quiet once again.

“I think it’s Billie!” Foster exclaims. “She’s trying to come through, but something is stopping her.” It makes sense. The size of the mass was similar to the fissures he’s seen her tear. There are other explanations, perhaps. But Billie seems the most logical one. “She needs somewhere the membrane is thinner…she had trouble arriving within the Tower walls before.”

There’s no need for further speculation, as Billie herself emerges from Corvo’s bedroom. She looks little worse for wear, dressed smartly in grays and blacks, her arcane eye a dull, cloudy red set against the lovely brown of her skin. “I miscalculated,” she offers. “Once I moved closer to Corvo’s collection of charms, it worked a great deal better.” She sheathes the twin-blade.

Despite the interruption to Foster’s current machinations, he is overjoyed to see her well. He stops short of hugging her, though the temptation is there. “What news?” he asks.

“I cannot help but feel the Traveler can anticipate my every move. I find evidence of his presence, but never the man himself. Small cadres of followers that poison themselves before I can get too close, changes in the membrane of time, allowing me to trespass where I could not before… What we need some means to corner him,” Billie explains.

“Do you have any idea when he will next appear?” Foster asks, though it may be too much to hope.

Billie shakes her head, “no, but I have a different idea. I believe I know his...point of origin. A time before he became theTraveler. But without his connection to the Void, I cannot track him easily. And I’m afraid if I go alone, he’ll only slip through my fingers again. We must cast a wider net.”

“Well, I will come with you, of course,” Foster would have it no other way. This man will cause great devastation if left unchecked, he is sure of it.

“As will I,” Corvo offers, “if it is possible?”

Billie looks at him, lips slightly parted, as if unsure. Certainly she knows that she is capable. Instead, she must assess if she wants Corvo’s assistance. “Yes,” she replies. “You should tell the Empress. I cannot promise to return you to this exact moment. But that is a bridge to later cross.”

Inclining his head towards Billie in a polite nod, Corvo excuses himself to go find his daughter. Undoubtedly she will want to go on this journey as well. But the stakes are too high. Foster is absolutely certain that the Kaldwin line must prevail. The other factions, frothing at the mouth to seize power, were there to be a crisis of succession, are all horrid, wretched opportunists.

After Corvo has left, Billie comments that he looks good, “better, than when I last saw you.”

Foster cannot help but roll his eyes, “I took your name, you know? We’re siblings now.”

It’s her turn to look upon him with disdain, “Yes, surely that is to be believed.”

“Your father did quite like strays,” he counters.

“Daud abhorred you in the end. He wanted me to kill you.”

“And you didn’t. Really a shame how easily fathers turn on their sons. Not so with their daughters.”

That at least elicits a laugh from Billie.

Corvo returns, indeed muttering that he had to talk Emily down from joining them. 

“There is someone else who will help us,” Billie explains, “I have already taken her to our destination. She is preparing what we will need in order to move about without arousing suspicion.”

Corvo pointedly looks at Billie’s eye, then her hand, then Foster’s face, then his own hands. Yes indeed, there are a great many things suspicious about each one of them.

Sighing heavily, Billie offers “you’ll see,” by way of explanation.


	2. Chapter 2

He cannot be homesick for this place. No. Because this city, these people, allowed him to be taken, killed, sacrificed. An urban center far vaster than any that will ever exist on the Isles stretches out before them, and not a single person within its borders cared enough for him to know his name. He cannot be homesick, so he chooses to believe he is merely ill.

“Would it have made a difference?” Billie asks, “would you have refused to come, if you knew?”

“No, I think not,” Foster isn’t sure that is honest. Maybe he is more a coward than he likes to pretend. Refusing Billie’s summons doesn’t seem likely either.

A warm hand slaps him on the shoulder from behind, “Come on now, let’s get you all into some proper clothes.”

The fourth member of their party came as a surprise as well, though not an unwelcome one. Mindy Blanchard possesses the exact skills they need in order to acquire information and resources across the city. A master of her craft, she has already managed to procure them the apartment they now use as a base, clothing suitable for the age, and whispers from every corner. Furthermore, she will use force when necessary, and her tongue when that is better suited to the question.

She herself is dressed beautifully. And while Foster hesitates to say that he truly belongs here, he cannot help but admit that he finds the Pandyssian sense of fashion closer to his own tastes than the drab grays and blacks of the Isles. Mindy’s cream colored dress is cinched in at the waist with an oversized sky blue linen bow that droops softly over her hips. Though most women would leave their arms bare this time of year, her dress has delicately patterned sleeves that mostly conceal the dark ink of her tattoos. The tattoos themselves would not be at issue, but some of them contain lettering, and the Pandyssian script is quite different from the one used thousands of years later on the Isles.

“I still can’t quite believe it’s really you,” she admits as she drapes items of clothing across the bedspread. “Billie told me what the both of you had done. How it was this or kill you. Did always want to meet you.”

Foster smiles, “Billie used to say the same thing. I promise you, the novelty wears off quickly.” He hesitates before deciding that yes, absolutely, Mindy is the type to appreciate his humor. “Besides, what you wanted was power. And, afraid to say, I’m fresh out.”

She laughs at him, claiming, “I’ll just have to find a different man to give me what I want.” She leaves him to get changed on his own.

There is, of course, the matter of language. Mindy has accomplished all she has since arriving by playing mute and reading body language. Her success is a true testament to her skills as a crook. Billie finds the Padyssian tongue as if through arcane intervention, drawing the knowledge through her like so many other magics she now can access. Foster finds that the intervening millenia have done little to dampen his ability to understand and speak. That leaves the matter of Corvo.

“A charm,” Foster realizes the solution is so simple. “A bone charm for translation.” 

Now changed into his appropriate attire, Foster returns to the dining area and takes a moment to look over his companions. It is admittedly quite the shock to see them dressed in lighter hues. Billie wears a pale pink camisole underneath an eggshell white shirt open at the front. Her trousers are loose fitting with the slightest hint of beige. Though her eye would be quite the anomaly in Dunwall, here women are prone to display elaborate jewelry, no matter the occasion. It is not entirely unheard of for those of means to replace lost eyes with brilliant gems. So yes, the shape of Billie’s might be odd, but the practice itself is not.

Corvo is a sight to behold, though obviously a tad uncomfortable in the outfit Mindy has chosen for him. The light blue tunic matches Mindy’s bow, and perhaps the same artisan dyed both bolts of cloth. Open slightly at the neck, the tunic reaches Corvo mid-thigh, before giving way to cream colored trousers. Despite how loose fitting the clothes are, and how perfectly sized they are to Corvo’s frame, the man himself does not look much at all like he belongs in such casual pieces by the standards of a later age.

Though they have not yet been on the streets, Foster tries to soothe him. “You will not stand out so much here. Pandyssians were taller than those from the Isles.”

Which isn’t to say Billie, as the shortest of their party, looks particularly out of place. Just as was the case on the Isles, there is a great diversity of human forms. Just that while Corvo’s height trended towards the upper edge in Dunwall, here he will encounter a great many people of a similar stature.

“If you are to make a charm,” Mindy muses, “you’ll need bone?”

“Yes,” Foster replies. “But there is no whale trade here, is there?” He tries to remember. The number of leviathans was much greater. And some were hunted for food, their bones used in crafting, but of a more practical sort. Certainly they were not butchered in great numbers, as became the practice when their oil was put to use.

Mindy shrugs, “if you need it, I will acquire it. Though it may take some time.”

“I can make myself useful in other ways until then,” Corvo insists. “If I am not seen, it will not matter whether or not I can speak.”

Foster admits, “I suppose that is true.”

There are several hours of daylight left. Mindy excuses herself from present company. She will do her best to find what Foster needs to craft the charm. Billie believes there to be some value in walking through the open air markets before they close. She knows that the Traveler was born in this age, but little else about his occupation or status. Perhaps there is some thread she can pull that might at least point them in the right direction.

Foster considers carefully where his search might begin. He has some idea, but not one he is keen to share with the others. 

“I’ll return...sometime after dark. Do not worry. This was my home, after all.”

“I will go with you,” Corvo offers. “In your care it should not matter that I must remain silent.”

Foster would like little more than to accept Corvo’s company, but Foster knows he cannot undertake this mission with an audience. “No, no. You should wait here for Mindy. If she returns with bone, please hold it close to your body. It will...help.”

Thankfully, Corvo does not insist. Perhaps he can tell that Foster is dreadfully nervous.

—

The sound of gulls overhead is near deafening. It is not only the whales who have decreased in numbers over the centuries. The citizens of Dunwall complain about the birds, gulls, pelicans, crows, all of them a nuisance in their own way. But they have never seen the sky grow dark with the flap of outstretched wings overhead. Or the sea shiny with a dense carpet of sparkling fish.

Foster follows the shoreline path, walking out towards the northern edge of the city. It has been quite some time since he has seen another person. Earlier in the day this stretch of the beach would be packed with travelers coming and going from the outlying settlements to the urban center. But most head back home well before the sun even begins to set, and now the road is clear.

There is a branching path up ahead. The right leads deeper inland, where many of the smaller towns have been established. The left circumvents a sheer, rocky ledge, taking adventurous travelers along a narrow strip of sand along the water. Truthfully, it is no road, but sometimes fishermen use the trail to reach less congested waters further up the coast.

Foster walks another fifteen minutes, until he reaches the small dock he was expecting to find. No boats ever come here. Silhouetted against the muted blue of the evening sky is a small, dark figure. Their features are indistinguishable in shadow, bare feet hanging off the side of the dock, just above the water line.

So, he’s still alive.

At first Foster dare not move any closer, lest he….notice himself? There is nothing so terrible that might happen if he were to engage in conversation with his younger form. Novels depicting time travel have been popular in the Isles for some years now. Authors often imagine that some terrible disaster would be wrought should a hapless scientist meddle too much in the past. But Foster already knows this is not the case. He stays away for a different reason.

Though he knows the exact date of the party’s arrival in Pandyssia, he did not know the day he was taken as a boy. He would not be able to pick this date out from any other. Often he would come to this short pier to watch the fish swim beneath the surface. He could come here alone and remain unbothered. 

Watching his younger self conjures an eerie stillness is his gut, a great sense of unease. He is sure enough now that this will not be the night the cultists take him. But he looks to be the right age. It will be soon.

There’s a gentle breeze against his temple, ruffling his dark hair into his eyes. The same gust of wind catches the other-him and he looks up, turning his attention towards Foster. They are quite too far away from one another to see each other’s faces clearly. Foster thinks perhaps he should leave. Yet he doesn’t, instead walking solemnly towards the pier.

His younger self pushes to his feet. There are holes at the knees of his pants, already too short at the ankles. At the sleeve of his shirt the seam is torn, but otherwise the garment does not look so very old. Finding decent cast-offs in the waste piles was easy enough. Just sometimes he had to wait to find something that would fit. 

Foster stops his approach where the pier meets the shore. He waits to see if the boy will come to him.

When he does, Foster realizes he’s made a mistake.

What he told Corvo is true. When displacing oneself in time, something indistinct takes place. A body, a person, is both there and not there, fuzzy around the edges. There is only one of each person, each spirit, no matter when they travel.

Only...he is no longer a single person. He and this boy are not the same. They are made of different materials. The body Foster has now is a construct, not the original possessed by the boy. They are both fully present in this moment, in a way they should not be.

Foster should have anticipated this.

The boy’s eyes are brown. How was this something he could have forgotten? His stomach twists at what this might mean.

[Who are you?] the boy asks with a boldness that Foster cannot remember possessing. He was a quiet, nervous thing. Unwanted, unloved, unnoticed. An orphan, yes, but less than that. He was disposable and brilliant. Fit for something akin to godhood and nothing else.

How can he even explain? [I’m you.] He must sound mad.

“You’re me,” the boy speaks in the tongue of the Isles, a language that will not exist for thousands of years. Yet each sound rings true. “They told me you would come,” he points towards the ocean. A melodic, primal cry emanates from the waters. The whales, of course. They were once Foster’s dearest friends. But he remembers no such conversation from before his sacrifice. Yes, he could hear their voices in a way other humans could not. But as a boy he was not terribly interesting to them.

“They would,” Foster laughs. “What is your name?” It is truly not as strange a question as it first appears.

But the boy looks at him with dark, narrowed eyes, “you don’t know our name?”

Foster shakes his head, “I have been called many things since I was you. Please, tell me.”

Frowning, the boy seems to consider what that might mean. Despite the fact he may not actually understand why Foster must know the answer, he parts his lips, “{unintelligible}”

“Curious…” Foster observes. Surprising, maybe, but there are so many things he does not understand. “Even now I cannot hear it. My own name sounds like static in my ears.”

“What are you called now?” the boy asks him.

“Foster, you may call me Foster.” He wonders how much the boy already knows, “Did they tell you what becomes of us?”

“I am going to die,” he says with grim certainty. “I told them I was not afraid.”

Morbidly, Foster replies, “You will be. You will be lonely and afraid for a long time. And I don’t believe there is very much I can do to stop it.”

“Maybe we are not the same,” the boy counters. 

Foster thinks that he’s probably right.

—

Their apartment only has two bedrooms. Foster does not relish in the possibility of sleeping next to Corvo. But he has no excuse to refuse the comfort.

Well, actually he is too eager for it. He hopes that despite their interruption back in Dunwall, Corvo has understood at least a bit of Foster’s intentions. He hopes that he need not make himself...vulnerable a second time.

Corvo waits for him in their bedroom, a whale vertebrae tucked inside his shirt. Wordlessly, Corvo pulls the bone from against his breast. It is still warm with his body heat.

“I’ll get to work right away,” Foster says.

Corvo replies, “You needn’t. It’s late. And you must be tired.”

With a small, dry laugh, Foster tries to brush off his concern. “I do not think it will take very long. Mortal I may be, but not wholly without magic. The runes are already clear in my mind. Besides, if I finish the charm tonight, I might sleep in late tomorrow, and you may take up the search.”

Corvo hums as if in agreement, sitting back down on the edge of the bed they will have to share. There is a sturdy wooden desk in the corner by the open window. The wax lamps are lit along the walls to provide illumination. The particular curvature of the glass amplifies the light, a bit of technology that never reached the Isles. 

Most humans would need specialized tools to make the bone sing as it should. Tools and years of practice. Foster possesses neither, but he doesn’t foresee it causing him much issue.

He turns the vertebrae over in his hands. It’s somewhat bigger than both his palms put together. He touches, he listens, he allows himself to feel the power of the departed Leviathan speak through his fingertips. There is, perhaps, magic to be found in all living things. But some are greater attuned.

With nothing more than a pocket knife and a small awl Foster begins his work. He will need a larger blunt tool to shave down the size of the bone enough that Corvo will be able to carry it with him. That can come later, after the runs are set.

Foster can feel Corvo’s eyes on him as he works. Silly, really for him to stay up this late. Corvo, like any man, needs his sleep. After some time, he hears Corvo shift in bed, the covers pulled up, then back down, the creak of the mattress, then quiet stillness once again. Foster doesn’t turn to look, but he expects that Corvo’s eyes are still on him.

Their room is quiet other than the steady chip of metal against bone, followed by the occasional swipe of Foster cleaning each delicate impression with his shirt sleeve. With each etched line he feels power well up from its source, tingling in the air around him. His sinuses fill with the smell of brine. He swears he can taste the Void on the tip of his tongue.

He is satisfied with his work. And finally he is certain that Corvo has fallen asleep as well. The disk of bone still needs to be reduced in size somewhat, with the excess edges taken down. But that is noisy work that can wait until tomorrow. It might be cumbersome to carry around in the meantime, but it will work if Corvo needs it.

Standing from his chair, Foster stretches his arms over his head, his spine cracking with a satisfying noise. He rolls his neck from side to side, trying to work out the tension before setting about extinguishing the lamps.

As he expected, Corvo is asleep, a sheet and thin blanket drawn over his broad frame. He’s propped up on one shoulder in a position that would have allowed him to watch Foster at work before dreams overcame him. Foster cannot help but be flattered, regardless of Corvo’s intention.

The room now reduced to an inky darkness, Foster realizes that he has no more excuses keeping him from the bed. He slips out of his tunic and breeches, cool night air pressing against his skin. A soft clean shirt and sleeping trousers are laid out on his side of the bed. Mindy really thought of everything. It was wise on Billie’s part to bring her. Foster changes into his sleeping clothes and lifts the top blanket, steeling himself for what comes next.

Underneath the sheets is already slightly warm from the heat of Corvo’s body. The smell of his skin is stronger here, mixed with the lightly floral soap so popular in the city. 

At first Foster doesn’t know how to hold his body, what distance is proper to maintain. Would it be better to lay on his side? His back? His stomach? What if he moves and shifts in the night? Despite the late (early) hour, his mind races with possibilities, mistakes he hasn’t made yet. Corvo, dear Corvo, has expressed no anxiety or concern at all regarding their sleeping arrangements. Then again, he had the luxury of falling asleep first.

He must stay awake for a long time, despite the exhaustion in his bones. And yet, somehow, sleep does overtake him, the anxiety singing through him settling into a dull hum.

—

There is a hand on his stomach when he wakes, warm and broad, the cooler band of Corvo’s signet ring pressed against hot flesh. Oh, and it feels like dying, the way Foster’s whole body tenses in response. He did not expect to wake before Corvo did. It would have been much easier to rise alone.

Corvo shifts behind him, a slow roll of his body so that they slot together more precisely. A steady exhale of breath is hot against Foster’s neck; the gentle tangle of their legs together stokes something inside of him. Foster bites down on the inside of his cheek to not moan, not scream. He could be enjoying this very much if Corvo were awake, if he knew what he was doing.

A low chuckle rumbles against his spine. The scruff of Corvo’s beard tickles against sensitive skin. “I know you’re awake.”

Foster winces, starting to pull away from Corvo’s warm embrace. How embarrassing to be caught out luxuriating in the attention he has so desired. He has been foolish and now Corvo mocks him. “I'm sorry,” Foster whispers. 

As he tries to shift and give Corvo space, Corvo’s arm tightens around his waist.

“Where are you going?” Corvo asks, the tenor of his voice doing as much as his hands to send a chill down Foster’s spine. “I thought this was something that you desired?”

Foster exhales, “Yes, but…”

“Did you think I could not tell?” Corvo asks, amusement in his voice. “You’re not terribly subtle. And I’m not oblivious.”

Of course he’s not. Corvo could not have survived in the employ of an Emperor and two Empresses on his physical gifts alone. He is exceedingly clever. Despite his early propensity to quarrel with other boys, he performed well in school, took quickly to every lesson and task assigned to him after reaching Dunwall, and has never allowed his senses to dull. So, yes, it was silly for Foster to believe that he didn’t know. But sometimes one believes silly things out of self-preservation. 

“Of course,” Foster chokes on the words.

Corvo’s hand moves, not to pull away and leave Foster with his shame, but instead to dip lower, against the waistband of his sleeping pants. Just the tips of Corvo’s fingers breach the hemline, tapping at the flat plane of Foster’s stomach. 

“I’ll take care of you, if you’d like?” Corvo asks.

The noise that passes through Foster’s lips is pathetic really. It’s needy and full of want and not dignified in the slightest. 

Corvo laughs at him again, “A yes?”

“Yes,” if he has embarrassed himself to such an extent already, at least he might know the pleasure of Corvo’s hands in exchange.

Only now does Corvo’s hand continue its descent, raking through the dark, curly hair above Foster’s groin before wrapping firmly around his cock. Foster is mostly hard already, despite (or perhaps on account of) the teasing he’s endured. The first few sure strokes brings him to full attention, his legs parting in response to give Corvo better access.

Corvo is near-utilitarian in how he works Foster’s cock. There are no sweet affections, no promises for more. Foster can’t find it in himself to complain. Though he has touched himself since becoming mortal, the sensation of another’s hands on his body, Corvo’s hands on him, still makes his head spin. He finds himself thrusting shallowly into the circle of Corvo’s fist. Corvo laughs against his neck, and seems to grind against him every time Foster pulls his hips back. Foster is too lost in his own pleasure to really notice if Corvo is hard against him. Oh, but he wants him to be. He wants Corvo to want him.

Foster finds himself so perilously close to the edge. He’s sweating under the sheets in the cool morning air, his breath coming in ragged pants. When Corvo uses his other hand to sneak underneath his shirt and pinch at one blushed nipple, Foster can’t control his voice. He cries out as he comes, spilling against the sheets and Corvo’s hand, nearly weeping in the satisfaction that he finds.

The room is only still for a moment before Corvo starts to pull away. He climbs out of bed with such composure that Foster’s stomach drops. Does he not want something in return? Foster wants quite desperately to touch Corvo, to feel him come undone in his hands. He may be inexperienced in practice, but he is eager to….learn.

Corvo hands him a piece of fabric, his own shirt from yesterday, presumably to clean up. Foster thinks that Corvo might be partially erect in his pants, but Corvo doesn’t stay in their room long enough for Foster to make an offer. He still feels sticky with pleasure, though he does the best he can to try and clean up his mess. Is Mindy planning on doing the washing herself? Or will she hire someone to take care of it? Foster feels embarrassment at either possibility.

By the time he drags himself out of bed and looks around the room, Foster can reasonably come to the conclusion that Corvo has left for the day. The bone charm has vanished from the desk, Corvo’s boots are gone, and there’s a small pile of dirty clothes huddled in one corner of the room. Groaning, Foster drags himself back to bed. 

As much as he enjoyed himself at the time, he now feels wretched.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)
> 
> The full draft of this fic is already complete. I’ll be updating as I work through editing. It’s...sort of an AU approach to my older, longer fic “Spend Some Time, Love” and reuses/revisits a number of concepts introduced there. Totally separate stories though. Just thematic overlap.


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